


a fish hook, an open eye

by rparens



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, F/F, Fridging, Prophetic Visions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 17:41:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3986968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rparens/pseuds/rparens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Can the shark, you malignant landworm," )( snarls. "We ain't on TV now. My hate be pure and fuckin' true, but if that brackish brine is all you got for me, I'm a throw you the fuck back."</p>
            </blockquote>





	a fish hook, an open eye

"Thanks for coming on the show, Miss Lafrond." 

"Lalonde." This is the seventh ridiculous pun on Rose's name, and the seventh icy correction. 

"Whatev, yeah. Check this s--t out, yo," )( instructs the cameras and the studio audience. Somehow, she manages to pronounce the hyphens. "We cut a deal with Starbucks, got this action on the counter right next to your frap. Pick it up." She holds up the _Complacency_ long enough for a camera to zoom in on the cover, then she slaps it facedown on her fake desk, smirks at the audience, and stalks offstage. 

Although )( has gotten the last word, Rose is reasonably sure that her own performance was strong enough to win the encounter on points. The heat of triumph is cooled slightly by a suspicion that )( and her millions of viewers didn't actually understand Rose's blistering ironies well enough to feel their sting. If not, a pity. Rose leaves behind the hot lights and the audience's glittering eyes, heading into the cool dim hallway that leads to the dressing rooms. 

The nice young man who applied television's obligatory makeup had promised to undo his work the moment the camera took its eye off Rose's face, but the dressing room is empty, except for the stool before the bulb-wreathed mirror. Rose flicks the switch irritably; the doused bulbs bloom red on black, then leave her blind in the dark. She feels for the stool and perches to wait. 

In the black mirror, a company of white infantry drills. She watches them turn and wheel on unheard commands. They must be three hundred years away. Rose closes her eyes; she can still make out the grave expressions on the pawns' faces. They halt and present arms, then fade away. Rose sighs. As soon as her face is clean, she can go and have a drink. 

Into the strange, deep silence that the soundproof walls enclose, a slow and heavy tread approaches. Its vibrations reach Rose mostly through the floor. She waits, as still as prey, for it to pass; but then, the doorknob turns. 

A sick tingle runs down Rose's spine and grounds itself with a pang of panic. She rebukes herself for hysterical nonsense and inhales evenly through her nose to clear her system of the shock. 

The calming breath brings a scent, not of the makeup boy's cold cream and cologne, but of a briny chill and a hint of rot. Rose holds perfectly still and watches a swath of light from the hallway widen, darken, and disappear. Past the smell of her, Rose can feel )('s cold mass sucking the warmth out of the room. 

"Lost?" Rose contrives to say, feeling the rasp in her dry throat and hoping )( can't hear it; knowing she can. 

She feels a cool breeze on the tips of her ears and hears )('s voice, closer than she expected: "Found you." 

Rose stops breathing momentarily. Then the paralyzing miasma of fear abruptly falls away, replaced by a delicate, mechanical tension, as of fine springs joining metal struts. She still can't see a thing, but she knows every contour of the space around her, and she can sense how close )( looms. 

"If you're here to take off my makeup," Rose says softly, "you don't have nearly enough light." 

)( giggles, high and breathy, and hits the switch. The light hurts Rose's eyes. She squints into the mirror's glare at the opaque goggles and needly grin. 

"Go ahead," she says, lifting her chin. "I'm done with this terrible greasepaint." 

)( approaches. Rose can almost hear her own tendons creak, but her face in the mirror is calm as a pond. She can see )('s hand rising up beside her face, but she still starts at the thumb's cool touch, smearing the powder on her cheekbone. 

"Greasepaint ain't finished with _you_ ," )( says hoarsely. She takes Rose by the jaw, turns her head, and kisses her on the mouth. 

Rose snorts in surprise and tries to twist away, but the long fingers grip her jaw hard. At first, )('s mouth is heavy and insistent, then she pulls back and licks at Rose's lips. Rose makes a strangled noise and opens her mouth. The alien tongue is delicately rubbery and surprisingly tasteless, but her breath is cold and minerally alive as the wind off the sea. 

)( breaks away from Rose's lips and mouths along her jaw to her ear. "You want me? Here I am," she whispers. 

Rose cringes away from the icy breeze. "W," she croaks, " _what_?" 

)( laces her hand into Rose's hair; the claws graze her scalp. "You can't come on my show, talk to me like that," she breathes, touching her cool lips to Rose's face, "expect not to get a rise out of me." Her mouth bumps against Rose's lips, cautious as a gamefish tasting the lure. 

Rose snaps at )('s lip, catches it, and bites down hard. )( hisses a laugh, and Rose understands she's just collaborated in another God-damned fish pun. But it's too late to pull away before )( inverts the metaphor, catching Rose's lip on the tip of one long fang. 

Before )( can set the hook, Rose twists her head free and stands up so fast the stool falls over. She whirls and sinks into a deep strife stance, her empty hands aching for her missing needles. )( smiles down at her. The savage open-mouthed grin looks like the combination of a torture victim's insolent courage and the torturer's evil joy. 

Rose straightens up and drops her hands. "What is _wrong_ with you?" she asks, honestly curious. 

)( raises her hand, and Rose flinches, but )( only bows her head and reaches back into her hair, feeling along the strap for the clasp. When the goggles come off her face, her pupils clench tight in W-shaped curves against the light. Rose stares. Not even at the Super Bowl halftime show, dressed in a smattering of Benjamins, had )( gone bare-faced. 

"I hate you," )( says quietly, her gaze steady on Rose's eyes. Rose has never before seen that face look solemn. The smile is bad, but its absence is somehow worse. Bewildered and dismayed, Rose searches the awful eyes. Then the truth blossoms out of the heart of her confusion: This is black romance. 

Rose boggles. The advantages are uncountable. All these years wasted on Twitter feuds and obfuscated satire! Fighting to keep a straight face, she eases back into a loose, oblique stance meant to telegraph sexual receptivity and combat readiness. 

)('s smile is coming back. "I've hated you since you were a wiggler." 

Rose lifts her hands to guard her face, then on impulse stretches out her right and gives )( a light, contemptuous slap on the cheek. "Xenopedophilia, fascinating though the implications—" 

One black hand whips out, so fast she barely sees it, and cracks across her face. "Can the shark, you malignant landworm," )( snarls. "We ain't on TV now. My hate be pure and fuckin' true, but if that brackish brine is all you got for me, I'm a throw you the fuck back." 

Okay. Wrong move. Rose takes her time straightening up. Her cheek burns; her head rings. She keeps her face turned away until she's recalled the necessary sight: New York City's ruined skyline past the waterfall of hair, on Rose's last day alive. She lets the image's memory fill her mind until she can feel her pulse in her temples. Then she lifts her head so )( can see her eyes. 

She steps forward, reaches up, and takes )('s face between her hands. "You are the worst thing," she says in a trembling undertone, sliding her hands back over the flaring ear-fins, "that will ever have happened to this world." )('s lips twist. Rose closes her hands slowly, so the fans fold and the spines bend, and pulls down sharply on the crumpled fins. "Or to me," she whispers against )('s mouth. Then, with all the ironic tenderness she can muster, she kisses her. 

)( sighs against her mouth and rests her hands on Rose's waist. Rose parts her bruised lips and runs the tip of her tongue slowly along the cold lower lip. )('s tongue flicks to meet hers; then, monstrously quick, she snatches Rose's hand off one fin and twists it up behind her back. 

A warning ache burns in Rose's shoulder, but she sweetens the kiss the way she'd stroke a doomed lab rat, tips back her head, and offers her mouth open and soft. The faces of )('s fangs glance off Rose's teeth as her tongue delves. Then she twists the joint-lock harder, and the pain spikes. Rose arches, gasps, and bites )('s tongue. 

)( lets go instantly, ostentatiously polite. She drags her tongue free, kisses Rose's cheek, and remarks with bright derision, "Any violetblood would fishlocate a shoulder before she'd resign a sharcasm gambit." 

"Perhaps you haven't noticed: I'm not a troll," Rose snaps, crushing out a little flare of injured pride. She stiffens her stance, driving herself sharply up against )('s front. Every surface feels as tough and springy as a correctly inflated sportsball. Under the bodysuit, something squirms. 

)( gives a tight cough and rolls her hips. "We can fix that," she says in a strained voice. "Give you a rack as high as mine." Her thumb scrapes Rose's parietal bone. "Fins and gills," she murmurs, her lips on the corner of Rose's jaw, her hand spread out on Rose's side, then sliding down her belly, "and a bulge like _Architeuthis_ 's arm." 

It's a nice thought. Too bad it never happens. Rose finds some consolation for her acute regret in the sinuous writhing against her hand of the universe's only living bulge. 

Even as she strokes and squeezes, and feels herself begin to shiver in )('s refrigerating arms, Rose perceives that some anomalies in the light are taking shape. She anchors one hand in )('s hair and waits to see what form they take. 

Denizens of the future, somehow equally horrendous and absurd, like a remembered nightmare, array themselves at )('s back: a bone-white giant sloth clasping in its claws a human baby; a huge spike-shouldered robot dual-wielding Fleshlights; a stone-faced human soldier in a harlequin tunic and a jester's cap. 

They aren't really there, so they can't meet Rose's eyes. She looks at )('s face instead, at the naked fangs and half-closed cuttlefish eyes, and runs her hand along the bodysuit's seamless front, searching for a closure. )( clutches at her with rough and gingerly hands. A stud on the suit's collar says, "bwoooooooop," and the front opens up in a long vee from shoulders to groin. )('s bulge erupts from the apex and spirals into Rose's hand. 

The nightmare figures dwindle and recede. Rose closes her eyes, breathes in the decaying-seaweed smell of )('s hair, grasps the bulge and pumps it once or twice. She feels in )('s thorax the deep vibrations of a groan, hears a popped button zing away. She wraps the bulge around her hand and tugs sharply. "Don't you dare ruin this dress." 

"Gonna ruin all your dresses," )( swears, but Rose can feel her sparing the lives of the remaining buttons. "You won't know what washed over you." Her frigid breath bathes Rose's bared shoulder. Rose shudders hard, once; then a wave of heat rises in her flesh, surges, and defeats the chill. )('s lips feel warm as sunshine on Rose's throat. Her bulge winds and clenches around Rose's fingers. 

Then the future opens up and blots out Rose's sight. 

Lincoln's statue in whiteface contemplates the Faygo-red reflecting pool. Intermodal containers roll through North Platte, stuffed like clown cars with the doomed. Neon signs on razor-wire gates read MIRTH MAKES FREE :o). 

Rose's heart pounds, her throat aches, her eyes sting. The burning pain of hopeless anger mingles indistinguishably with the hotly glowing concupiscent flush )('s touch provokes. Blinded by )('s future crimes, quivering with hatred )( hasn't even earned yet, Rose buries her face in )('s neck, clings to her slick sides, and waits for the attack to pass. 

Instead, the glaring visions shimmer and vanish like minnows in the shadow of a pike, and Rose sees the worst thing of all, worse than the drowned continents, worse than the mass graves: her brother on the rooftop in New York, his back broken, his shades gone, still alive, watching Rose face )( alone. 

Then that sight too dissolves, lost in a swelling tangle of writhing black. Rose can't tell whether she's seeing )('s hair or another future horror. It doesn't seem to matter. The rage and grief collapse into a quietly roaring void, around which Rose establishes a cold and empty calm. 

She tries to open her eyes, but they're already open. Her dress is undone to the waist. )( is chortling and licking Rose's wet cheeks. Rose takes her by the throat and thrusts her back, then lets her dress fall and stands in her slip. 

)('s grin strobes. Rose steps forward, lays her hands on )('s chest, and slides her palms down over )('s sides. Caressing the stiff plate of one gill cover, she takes )('s chin in the fingertips of her other hand and leans up to kiss her. 

Then she shoves her fingers up the gill. 

)( screeches and stumbles backward; Rose follows smoothly. "Traffic signal! Velociraptor! _Human safeword_ , you cataclysmic bitch!" 

Rose smiles. "You thought we were playing?" She crooks her fingers, and )( screams. 

She grabs Rose's wrist, but Rose hooks her fingers behind the delicate gill arches and raises one eyebrow. "Would you like to keep these? Let go." )( throws her head back, roars in frustration, and lets go. 

Rose goes up on tiptoe, lays her cheek alongside )('s face and murmurs, "Be quiet," with a little tug. A harsh glub bubbles out around Rose's fingers, and )('s voice wanes to a thready buzz in her throat. "That's better," Rose says. "Turn around." 

They face the mirror, Rose's hand still halfway up the gill slit, her arm wrapped across )('s ribcage from behind. She's shivering now, stifling whimpers. Every noise buys a short sharp thrust. A little blood leaks from the gill and trickles down )('s black flank. 

Rose rests her chin on )('s shoulder and watches her bite her lip bloody. With her free hand, Rose explores the thoracic and abdominal surfaces revealed by the bodysuit's open vee. When she strokes the other gill, )( groans, "No, _please_ ," then she snaps shut her jaw as Rose traces the operculum's edge. At the base of her belly, )('s bulge, a glistening black tentacle studded with pink suckers, tries to braid itself. 

"Kneel down slowly, please," Rose suggests. She follows )( down to the floor and situates herself astride her thighs, her thumb fondling the captive gill's operculum. Her other hand slips down )('s belly, grasps the bulge. Its suckers pluck at her knuckles while the tip slides up her wrist. She squeezes it and tugs to feel the suckers' raised buttons skid across her palm. )( gives a rich moan which dies in a whine as Rose twitches the fingers buried in her gill. "Shh," Rose reminds her, frees her hand from the bulge, and leans on the gill until )( arches backward all the way to the floor, her knees still folded, trapped, and spread. 

The nook's ice-cold but wet and swollen. Rose strokes )('s introitus, admiring the serpentine contortions of her rampant bulge. From fine tip to fat root, it has no bone or nail; Rose's fingers look like talons beside its hydrostatic grace. Ah, well. She sinks her fingers in with a cruel twist and hears )( say "hnngh" thickly through her clenched fangs. 

The sight of her, wounded and opened, bloody and inflamed, makes Rose's heart hurt with black joy, edged in gray despair. It won't help, it won't change a thing. The bulge flops and lunges; the nook pulses; Rose's hands ache with cold. She drives her fingers up the nook in long, loose thrusts from the shoulder, working her other hand further into the gill. )( gives a long strangled shout and arches up off the floor, touching down only at shoulders and shins and the tips of her horns. 

Rose hooks her fingers and pulls up hard, dragging on the gill's mouth and the nook's anterior wall. )( makes an awful sound, and fuchsia spurts from her nook, wetting Rose's arm to the elbow. The operculum gapes and flutters over Rose's other wrist. Rose crushes the gill arches in her fist—)( screams—braces her knuckles against the convulsing nook, and tears out the gill. 

Shrieking, )( jackknifes sideways around the ruined gill, genetic material still pouring out around Rose's hand. After the flow slows to a trickle, Rose drags out her hand with a thick sucking noise and puts her frozen fingers in her mouth. The taste is strong and fishy. She extends her other hand out over )('s heaving side, opens her fingers, and lets fall the torn scraps of bone, cartilage, and flesh. 

She stands, strips her slip and uses it to mop at her stained arm. )('s contorted torso shudders with ragged, shallow breaths. "Don't go," )( wheezes. Rose steps over )('s fuchsia-painted thigh and approaches her head. She picks up one foot like a heron or ballerina and presses the instep to )('s cheek, a pedal parody of a pap. 

"I'm not going to sit with you until the veterinarian arrives," she says kindly, and drops the wet slip to drape with a wet slap over )('s horn. 

)( groans. "You're disgusting. Don't leave me like this." 

Rose chucks her on the chin with the knuckles of her clenched toes and withdraws her foot—almost. One long black hand is suddenly wrapped around her ankle. Rose swears and tries to shake it off, but )( jerks the leg straight out from under her. She falls into )('s open arms, which wrap her up. Then, with a deep coughing shout of pain, )( flops over atop her and traps Rose's head in her long heavy horns. 

Rose thrashes, but her arms are caught in )('s embrace. Cold, oily blood runs from )('s gill and spills down Rose's side. Panting into Rose's neck, )( humps her back and twists her hips till her pelvis rests on Rose's. 

Rose tenses every muscle, trying to form iron bars from her spine and limbs. The tip of )('s bulge prods gently at her thigh. Its suckers' grip ripples as it squirms slowly upward. Shuddering with effort, Rose still can't stay silent. She folds one knee, drags it up )('s side, and shoves it hard against the injured gill. )('s breathing turns to sobs, but her bulge goes on investigating, its access now much improved. 

)( untangles one of her hands to reach down and rip in two Rose's last garment. Rose wrenches at )('s horn, but her skull is held fast in the bident's tines. When she feels the tentacle's tip slip slickly inside her, Rose covers a groan with a snarl and seizes )( by the face, two fingers hooked over the edge of the eye socket, her thumb clamped under the jaw. )( howls in mingled agony and satisfaction as her bulge clambers deeper and Rose drags at the bones of her face. 

)( snatches Rose's wrist and holds her still. While her bulge twists and coils, )( pulls back her hips, so it slithers halfway out against its will (if, like an octopod's arm, an imperial bulge has a mind of its own). 

Rose clenches her jaw hard, preferring to break a tooth than to make another sound. She arches rigid and still, except for a faint, rapid tremor. Her breath whistles in her teeth. With a wet slurping sound, the bulge corkscrews back inside, dragging down )('s hips. )( gasps for air, her open mouth pressed to Rose's palm. 

A couple of dime-sized suckers near the bulge's root latch delicately onto the prepuce and glans of Rose's rearing bulge-analogue. They suck while the buried bulge writhes. Rose chokes back a cry through her nose, then spends the next twenty seconds undergoing tetanoid muscular spasms and pulsating contractions of the nook-analogue that vouchsafe to )( and to her bulge that everything has been redressed. 

The bulge withdraws with a seneschal's tact; )( lifts her horns and pushes herself up. Rose's hand still clings to her face. She lays her own hand loose and cool on Rose's hot cheek, then collapses sideways and lies still. 

A little time passes. Rose listens to the low whine in )('s labored breath. In a few centuries she'll have nothing left but seagulls and cloned slaves. 

)( turns her head and kisses Rose's palm. Then she rises, bent over, clutching her side. She bites her lip, flashes Rose her middle fingers, and kills the lights. She peaces. The door gapes open in her wake. 


End file.
